The Ballad of Cyrus Bridges
Cyrus awoke to a sharp banging sound that he immediately assumed was the neighbor's dog. "That's it, I'm shootin' that sumbitch..." he grumbled to himself, rising from the mattress on the floor that served as his bed. He reached under a nearby pile of soiled clothes and felt around till his hand closed around the grip of a .22 caliber pistol. Checking to make sure it was loaded, he unclicked the safety and rose to his feet. Last night's drunken reverie still swam in his head as he steadied himself. Narrowing his eyes, he stalked over to the window, pulling aside the dirty old towel that covered it. There was the old lab his neighbor called Poncho, chained to the front porch steps of the trailer next to his, just as always, but the dog didn't appear to be awake. Frowning, Cyrus wondered momentarily if this was some kind of trick (that dog was very tricky, as he'd told the police and the manager of the trailer park more than once), but was interrupted by the same persistent banging sound as before. The dog jerked awake, raising it's head up just as Cyrus turned away from the window.